Is there an aftertaste of life in these graves? Do the bees find, in the mouths of flowers, an almost-word which keeps silent? Oh flowers, prisoners to our instincts for happiness, do you return to us with our dead in your veins? How can you slip our grasp, flowers? How can you not be our flowers? Does the rose avoid us with all its petals? Can it become rose-only, nothing-but-rose? No one’s sleep under so many eyelids?
Links:
[1] https://www.ablemuse.com/digital-books-17/v17/digital edition/Complete Digital Version of -/Able Muse, Print Edition (Number 17), Summer 2014